


What A Fool You'll Be

by nuitdemesreves (mesohorany)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Absolutely shameless porn, Brother/Brother Incest, Don't Like Don't Read, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Incest, Jealous Mischa is so fun to write, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Smut, so much porn, straight up pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mesohorany/pseuds/nuitdemesreves
Summary: Mischa really doesn't like Sascha's girlfriend and flies to Dubai to confront him about it. Things get far more intense than expected.





	What A Fool You'll Be

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the warnings + disclaimers: this is incest - don't like don't read. This one hundred percent did not happen (although right now I dearly wish that it did).
> 
> I can summarize the reason that this was written in one sentence: I strongly dislike Sascha's new girlfriend, so Mischa does too. Cue the halo held up by devil horns rising above my head.
> 
> Thanks as always to my babygirl Emmy for the inspiration and encouragement.
> 
>  
> 
> ["Differently" - Marian Hill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wps9nVxLJqY) was pretty much on repeat while I wrote this. Anyway. This is super dirty. Hope you guys enjoy.

On the topmost floor of that most opulent of hotels there’s a verandah tucked into the back corner and somehow no one knows about it, there’s never a soul to share the air with, and that’s precisely what Sascha wants. He steals away for the hot air because heat rises and it reminds him of California in the summer, oleander season, deadly time. The wind could kiss you or kill you, you wouldn’t know until you breathed it, and maybe danger is what attracts him to it. Poison is always beautiful until it’s lethal.

In their hotel room it’s always cold. Olya likes it freezing, a strange preference that Sascha doesn’t understand because she’s always half-naked for her Instagram stories, doesn’t cover a thing. She’s been wanting to show the world what they were since August, since they started whatever it was they’d become with a waist-grab and a drunken kiss and somehow she’s still around, he’s let her stay, hasn’t pushed her way. In spite of himself, in spite of her insistence for showcasing them – “we should be proud, aren’t you? There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she says, but Sascha’s been dealing with shameful things since he was thirteen and a relationship with a conventionally attractive Russian woman is low on his catalogue of depravities – he hasn’t told her no. Hasn’t said, enough, I’m bored of you, go away, even though he’s thought of it more than once. But then Mischa calls and Sascha can hear Evgeniya in the background dealing with their shrieking child, and he travels to yet another tournament with that aching nonexistence that Mischa used to fill at his side, and Olya is always a text away and she’s more than eager to drop her life to come with him. What job, what school? For him, she’d give up everything.

 _Red flags, red flags, red flags_.

But Sascha doesn’t care, he’s bone-deep lonely, and so he calls her, sends her money for plane tickets. She is a decent distraction, nice to look at, good conversation and amusing in the bedroom. What causes him to lose sleep is that he doesn’t really know what he needs a distraction _from_.

 _Yes you do_ his vicious mocking brain hisses at him, insidious. _Who made you lonely; who abandoned you? For whom are you pining?_

And the answer always screams loudest at three a.m., when Sascha is sleepless in whatever bed he occupies that week, forming dark circles under his eyes and feeling like half of him has been shredded to bits.

 _Mischa_.

Even now Sascha is looking for him in every face he sees. Mischa didn’t come to London, said he couldn’t get away from his _househusband obligations_. Sascha is perfectly aware that this bitterness is not a fair stance for him to take; he loves his nephew and understands better than anyone that family comes first, but –

 

“Bring him,” he’d pleaded to Mischa over the phone, “you know we can get a nanny for him, it’s not like you’d be away from him long, and you can even bring Evgeniya if you want.”

 

Mischa had laughed; Sascha’s generosity was unnecessary. He was perfectly capable of providing for his entire family and they both knew it. “I’d love to, Sash, you know I would. But Evi wants a little time at home with us both and I can’t blame her. I’ve been traveling so much lately and we all need a break.”

 

Mischa never used to tell him no, not _ever_ ; no request was too intemperate. But when Mischa had gotten _wifed up_ , well. Sascha couldn’t have spent a hundred years preparing for how much his life would change, couldn’t have gauged the depths of his loss, and life continued to teach him about it every single day. These days he’s always unfulfilled, he’s always waiting, but since Mischa married Evgeniya he has been more scarce than present in Sascha’s life and and Sascha knows he has to stop waiting or suffer, grovel floundering at the feet of that cruel goddess, absence.

 

Thus…Olya.

 

In the sharp humidless Dubai air Sascha rolls his shoulders to the sky and thinks for the thousandth time that his weird possessiveness of Mischa is not normal, not normal at all.

 

He’s got maybe an hour and a half while Olya gets ready for dinner; she takes her sweet time doing everything, and he doesn’t waste his own moments waiting around for her. He gets bored easily, needs to be distracted and stimulated, and the night air always conjures life in him like a witch to a spell. He pulls out his phone, social media notifications turned _off_ , and Marcelo’s name is there.

 

 _Where are you_?

 

Sascha sighs. He loves his best friend but right now he wants nothing but the air and the wind to curb-stomp his overactive brain.

 

 _Around_.

 

 _You don’t have to tell me,_ the reply comes _, he find you_. And Sascha has just enough time to wonder what in the fuck Marcelo means by this when the stairwell door bursts violently open and Mischa comes stalking through.

 

Sascha is aware that his mouth has reformed itself into the shape of a perfect circle and he is about to shout with jubilation, run to his brother to greet him when he senses the air change, and not in a pleasant way. As Mischa approaches Sascha can see that his face is all turmoil: something is very, very off. Mischa’s eyes grow dark when he is angry and right now they are black as plague.

 

Automatically Sascha gets a foot behind him, weight shifting to his back heel, moving away in his unease. He doesn’t like this, doesn’t feel the thrill that always appears when Mischa is close to him, not even when Mischa gets in his face and reaches up to wrap his fingers around the scruff of Sascha’s neck, noticeably more aggressive with his grip than he might normally be. They stare at each other and Sascha doesn’t have an inkling where to begin so he says,

 

“Mischa, what are you doing here?”

“What’s new, little brother?” Tetchy, vicious, no hint of restraint behind his voice. Fearsome like Sascha has never heard him before, because what reason has Mischa ever given him to be afraid?

 

“Nothing,” says Sascha, still stunned near mute by Mischa’s unexplained presence. “Just, you know. On vacation.”

 

“Yeah?” Mischa’s voice is low, almost a growl. “I can see that. What have you been up to? Keeping busy? Enjoying yourself?”

 

This last bit is dragged out enough for Sascha to know immediately what’s up but he’s not about to give in, not after what Mischa put him through with Evgeniya. His expression shuts down, bars over a jail cell, and his tone shifts to cool.

 

“All of the above,” he says smoothly. “As you would know if you’d joined me.”

 

“Would I?” Mischa’s eyes drill Sascha’s. “That’s funny. We should go for a walk, then, so you can tell me all about your grand adventures in Dubai.”

 

“I – can’t,” blurts Sascha, shifty. “I have plans.”

 

“Oh, you do,” says Mischa, and a glinting katana blade of triumph blends with the overflowing fury in his voice. “What plans? With who?”

 

“Marcelo,” say Sascha staunchly, because it’s true, Marcelo is coming to dinner, too.

 

“Oh yeah?” Mischa looks away, grinding his teeth, and Sascha gets the distinct feeling that he is witnessing a lumberjack draw back from a near-decapitated tree to collect strength before he serves the killing blow. “Leaving your prize at home tonight, are you?”

 

Sascha feels his stomach bottom out, rollercoaster ride, except he can’t currently remember how to feel joy.

 

“My – ”

 

“Your prize, yeah, Sash. What, you didn’t think I’d notice that our – what did you call her? Old family acquaintance? Has been dogging your heels lately? It’s funny, though,” says Mischa, voice like arsenic-tipped barbs, “that she’s such a lifelong friend of the family, because _I’ve_ never fucking met her.”

 

“Mischa,” says Sascha cautiously, aware that he’s treading thin thin razorwire and he’s closer to toppling off the edge every second, “you know Mum and Dad taught us to be private with our personal stuff.”

“Yeah, to the press. Not to me.” Mischa’s face is tempest and thunder. "What the absolute fuck, Sascha? Why haven't you said anything about this?”

 

He doesn’t say _her_. Mischa doesn’t do anything accidentally and Sascha takes note of his phrasing with grudging respect: Mischa does _not_ like Olya, so much so that he has verbally reduced her to a situation instead of a person.

 

Sascha can’t breathe. He’s never seen Mischa so worked up about something, especially not at _him_ ; his brain is firing on half a cylinder and he knows he’s caught. But righteous anger always finds a way so he aligns his broad, broad shoulders and looms down at Mischa and glares.

 

“Like how you never said anything to me when you popped the question to Evgeniya?”

 

Mischa’s face is dark, dark, dark. “That is not the same thing and you know it.”

 

“No, it’s not, Mischa, you’re right, it’s not.” Sascha gabbles when he’s vexed. “Because it’s a _whole lot fucking worse_. I don’t get why you’re mad about this, anyway. Cause you’re married at home with a kid? You jealous you can’t play the field anymore?”

 

“Fuck off with your _jealous_ ,” spits Mischa, and Sascha’s eyes half to slits. “So you’re getting me back by letting your Russian doll flaunt herself all over Instagram? Do you even know how tragic that is? You’re dating a literal thot. I honestly expected more of you, Sash. You’re reaching the peak of your career and you’re letting yourself be distracted by this, what, this dime store attention whore. It’s pathetic.”

 

Mischa abhors social media, uses it sparsely, usually to post sweet throwback pictures of himself and Sascha. The second Sascha thinks of this his stomach loops unpleasantly again.

 

“How the fuck would you even know who I may or may not be dating?” Sascha’s blood feels like candle wax. “You’re never around anymore anyway.”

 

“How would I know?” Mischa tips his head to the sky, laughs out loud, and the utter mirthlessness of the sound is unnerving to the bone. “Maybe because she’s posting shit all over social media like the desperate narcissist she is? And you didn’t fucking tell me about her to begin with, so the only way I’ve been able to find out is through your stupid German interviews and _fucking_ Instagram. And I hate that shit, by the way, you and your _may or may not be dating_. The juvenile games don’t look good on you, Sash.”

 

Sascha feels like he’s been clouted. They are barking three languages in each other’s faces and every time he speaks Mischa gets closer, forceful.

 

“I thought you knew,” he says, uncomfortable. “You didn’t ask me about her, in Basel.”

 

“I was shocked she wasn’t there, to be honest, since it seems she can drop whatever she’s doing at any given moment and rush to your side when you need her,” says Mischa, toxic. “And did it ever occur to you that I might have been waiting for you to tell me? When you don’t talk about someone, you know, it generally means they aren’t very important to you, so you’ll forgive me if I thought she might just have been a pretty plaything to put on display for a few weeks.”

 

Sascha winces, shrugs. “It just never came up.”

 

“ _It just never came up_?” Mischa is tumultous, incandescent in his leashed fury, but the restraint is eroding. “Honestly, Sash, I feel like I don’t know you anymore. You never tell me anything, I’m always guessing at you, like I’m the press or the general public.”

 

Sascha’s blood turns to steel; this is entirely unfair and there is so much that he has never said to Mischa and he figures, fuck, there’s no time like the present.

 

“Yeah? Well you didn’t tell me when you got fucking engaged, did you? I don’t owe you shit, Mischa. You’re the one who put up the wall between us.”

 

Mischa’s face goes vacant with disbelief.

 

“What are you talking about? There is no _wall._ I told you right away, after I proposed.”

 

“Yeah,” says Sascha, heavy, “but you didn’t tell me before. You didn’t ask me, Mischa. Not about what ring you should buy her, not about where you should ask her, or how, or whether or not I even _liked_ her. None of the normal things two brothers discuss when one is thinking of proposing to his girlfriend. You should have involved me from the start, but you didn’t. And that…that is all kinds of fucked up, Meesh.”

 

“Sash, come on.” Mischa’s throat feels like it’s coated with sun-sticky tar, impossible to swallow. “You knew it was coming.”

 

“I knew…?” Sascha laughs out loud, bitter as acid in his chest. “You barely told me anything about her. You said not talking about someone means they aren’t very important? I would have thought that she was some – some little inconsequential hookup with how infrequently you spoke of her to me. One day it was just us, and then the next it was HER. Fuck, I wouldn’t have known you were even that serious without you showing me the ring. _After_ you put it there, by the way.”

 

“You were around her all the time,” says Mischa, slowly. Sascha is a million-piece puzzle and he’s standing above the loose bits with no idea how to match them all together, no sensible solution in sight. “You had to have had at least an inkling. And you never even gave her a chance, Sash. I tried to bring her around, let you guys get to know each other, but you never wanted any of it.”

 

But even as he says it his traitor brain snarks cheerfully, _well, but_ that’s _not quite true, is it._

Sascha swoops.

 

“No you didn’t, Mischa. You kept us separate. You always drew a line between us. It was like you didn’t want us to get close,” he says, exultant, because what he says is not a lie but they are both well aware of the fact that if Mischa had tried harder to integrate his brother and his lover that Sascha would have rejected his efforts like a toddler throwing broccoli in a fit of tantrum to the floor. For good measure he adds, “Like you couldn’t talk about one to the other.”

 

Mischa isn’t about to let him get away with that one. “You didn’t want to get close to her,” he says. “you hated her from day one.”

 

“Yeah,” blurts Sascha, “because she fucking TOOK YOU AWAY FROM ME.”

 

Mischa is stupefied, he couldn’t have seen this coming if he’d been airborne over Sascha’s erupting volcano, molten-red lava scars tracing his black fury. The implications of Sascha’s words scare him and he has no idea how to react so naturally his brain grasps desperately for the response he’s best at when he’s confused: defense.

 

“Did you learn from my example, then?” Venom dripping from his adder fangs. “Because you sure as hell haven’t asked me what I think about Olya.”

 

“I had no reason to think you’d be anything but fine with it,” says Sasha coldly, “because it was easy enough for you to abandon me for someone you only knew for two years.”

 

“That’s what you think? That I abandoned you?” Mischa can’t remember a single meaningful word in any of his three languages. “Sascha, that’s crazy. There’s no way I could have known it would affect you like this and you know it.”

 

“Bull,” says Sascha, dead-eyed, “fucking. Shit.”

 

“ _Alexander_.”

 

“Did you know,” says Sascha slowly, ignoring the admonishment; he’s not a demon that can be controlled if it’s named, “that I blacked out so hard the night of your wedding Marcelo had to practically carry me to get a fucking IV the next day? Woke up in my bathtub with a migraine down to my toes swimming in my own vomit? And where were you? Your honeymoon.”

 

Mischa is so used to repairing every rip in their seams, replacing every lost button, every little crack in their façade, but he is _incensed_ and he is even angrier now because he has no right to be. Of course if he feels this way about Olya, Sascha feels this way about Evgeniya, because the answer is there, it’s always been there, he just couldn’t see it because he never allowed himself to. He still can’t.

 

“I knew you were really fucked up,” he says, cautious, “but Marcelo told me to go, he’d take care of you. I didn’t know it was that bad.”

 

“You were a little busy.” Caustic. “And of course you didn’t know. You didn’t ask.”

 

“What didn’t I know? You could have called and I would have picked up in an instant. You act like a ring on my finger makes me any less of your brother, but it’s you inventing that in your head, Sascha. I have never _abandoned_ you. I’ve always been a call or a text away, even on my fucking _honeymoon_ for you, you spoiled brat, and I always am. You know I’d be on the next flight to wherever you were if you told me you needed me.”

 

Sascha sucks in a breath and his dam walls are _thisclose_ to shattering but he can’t breathe and the constriction in his chest is python-like.

 

“You know I can’t say this shit over the phone.”

 

Mischa feels like he’s holding on to a live wire.

 

“What do you mean, Sash.” It isn’t a question.

 

“You know,” spits Sascha, bitter. “I know you know. It’s why you’re jealous of my girlfriend.”

 

Mischa when he replies is bluster and denial and fury. “I am not fucking _jealous_.”

 

Soft under his breath Sascha hums, that resigned melancholia, subjugated. Again he says,

 

“Then why are you here, Mischa?”

 

Mischa watches him with his heart at the base of his tongue and his fingers going numb from overactive nerves and his stomach ill with want and shame and the inability to translate to spoken word the things that his mind is showing him, and then he knows. His veins rush with Arctic wind, curling sharp in his blood, the Thing That’s Wrong With Him, the thing that he’s been rejecting for years.

 

“Because Olya,” he says steadily, “is taking you away from me.”

 

Sascha’s eyes go huge and swimmy and Mischa hurts everywhere for the damage and confusion in his face, but underneath everything there is truth, and when could he ever deny Sascha when he was honest?

 

Then Sascha’s expression resolves, and it is into anger.

 

“You don’t _own me_ , Mischa,” he says, growling. “I’m not something that can be _taken away from you_. You gave up that right when you married Evgeniya.”

 

Mischa is reeling from everything that has been said and is being said and will be said that night and there is something hot in his stomach that has been building for years when he’s close like this to Sascha, when they’re intimate, long warm hugs and Mischa’s fingers around the hot nape of Sascha’s neck. Practice sessions where it’s just the two of them in the heat and on the bench when they break between drills Mischa leans back into Sascha’s chest, thighs pasted together, arm on Sascha’s hip. Too comfortable, too close.

 

“Do you know,” he says slowly, aggravation seeping into his tone, “why I didn’t tell you about proposing to her?”

 

“Have I not made it clear enough that I have no idea?”

 

“I don’t think that’s true,” says Mischa, grim. “It’s a similar concept, Sash, come on. Why am I jealous of Olya? Why didn’t I tell you about Evgeniya? Think about why you haven’t said anything to me about her and tell me what you learn about yourself.”

 

Sascha searches his eyes and the rage canvassing his perfect symmetrical Michelangelo face smears, settles, smears.

 

“Because,” he says, “because I couldn’t talk about one – ”

 

“ – to the other,” cuts Mischa. “You couldn’t talk about her to me because you didn’t want me to know. I couldn’t talk about Evgeniya to you because _I_ couldn’t handle it if _you_ knew. If you did, that made it real.”

 

“Made what real?” Sascha’s voice trembles, a teardrop of rainwater on a wind-swayed leaf.

 

“The fact that we’ve always belonged to each other,” says Mischa, snarling, and then he plunges forward and sinks claws into Sascha’s t-shirt and crashes their lips together, teeth and teeth and tongue, panting desperate breath, years of chained violent want. And this, Sascha thinks, has always been inevitable, even if it took years of denial and dancing around to get there, even if it took a marriage and a child and a hidden relationship. Mischa had been right about why he couldn’t talk about Olya to him because Mischa is always right about _everything_ and now he is teaching him how to listen.

 

 _Tell me what you learn about yourself_.

 

Sascha is learning with every flick of Mischa’s tongue, every booming heartbeat that jolts his chest, every curl of Mischa’s fingers and breath that rains like liquor from Mischa’s mouth into his own. The forceful way Mischa holds him, the _need_ in him, Sascha’s lower belly like a furnace, how hard Mischa is against him. How absolutely fucked up they are, but how could there ever be anyone else because Mischa has been Sascha’s entire universe since he was old enough to understand the feeling of _love_. Mischa, the warmth in his chest, the person he goes to for _everything_ , the one face he always looks for in the crowd. His coach, his mentor, his best friend; if Sascha only ever had Mischa in his life and no one else he’d never want for a thing, because Mischa had taken care of him completely from day one.

 

 _For whom are you pining_?

 

_Mischa._

“Mischa,” he says against his brother’s mouth, and his voice is a sob, still furious, befuddled and certain in harmony. He sees exactly where this is going, wants nothing else. “Do you have a room?”

 

“Yes,” growls Mischa, and Sascha can feel his cock pulsing in his jeans, how much he wants, wants, wants. “Do you want to go there?” Because even though they are made of sin, wrath and envy and greed and sightless lust, Mischa will _always_ check that Sascha is sure.

 

Sascha looks him in the eye, cups Mischa’s stubbly face in his hands, voice rolling like a storm in his throat.

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

“Make your excuses, then,” he says, insouciant, and Sascha couldn’t be more aroused for him, his certainty, how Mischa has always been unafraid to boss him. _Sit down, be humble_ , he says to him all the time, when Sascha’s ego gets out of hand, and now is no different. Sascha will have to cover for himself if he wants this.

 

So Sascha with his head on sideways pulls out his phone and texts first Marcelo, then Olya – _hey, Mischa is here, he’s having a really hard time with something and needs to talk for a while, you guys go on to dinner and we’ll join you later. Sorry, have fun_ – and he isn’t sorry at all. He’s selfish and wanton and it seems hilarious to him now that neither of them could have pinpointed this in their earlier years, when it was obvious as the sun all along.

 

Mischa waits until Sascha has stowed his phone in his pocket once again. Then he coaxes him with his eyes, draws away when Sascha leans in to kiss him again, leads him in the direction of the stairwell. They pound down the stairs, into the elevator, each leaning on an opposite railing so they don’t start publicly fucking around under the watchful red eye of the security camera. Between them their heat is Sahara, apocalypse.

 

The elevator takes ages to arrive upon the correct floor; Mischa locks Sascha in with his eyes, pulls him out by the force of his gaze alone. Sascha shadows him down the hall like a puppy, something he’s done his whole life, only wanting to be in his brother’s orbit, and when they finally reach Mischa’s door he starts picking frantically at his fingernails. Calming mechanism for the nerves that rocket through his stomach. When they burst inside it’s dark and Mischa lets the door slam behind them, wheels to face Sascha again, breathing like an angry bull in the ring. They don’t speak; silence is king here.

 

For a moment they just look at each other and then Mischa’s face clears and he gets his hands on Sascha’s huge shoulders and slams him back into the door, hips flush, feeling each other out. When they kiss it’s rough and raw and Sascha splits his thighs, Mischa’s knee coming up to hunt the apex, grinding against Sascha’s cock. Sascha squeaks, surprised, and Mischa chases it, knowing he’s hit upon something Sascha loves. The rhythm of his persistence is lethal, friction so good Sascha’s breath glitches. Sascha’s hands get up under the sides of Mischa’s shirt and Mischa breaks their kiss so Sascha can rip it off, so hard the fabric might have torn, but neither of them can muster a thought to care. Mischa wrenches Sascha’s shirt over his dark honey head and then they are just in jeans and as always Sascha is astonished for how similarly they are built. Mischa has always been the brawnier of the two but their torsos are crafted from the same mold, consistent length and structure, the same pattern of hair, identical bellybuttons.

 

The difference is that Mischa is so much more beautiful than Sascha will ever be.

 

Mischa presses against him again, gets his hand between Sascha’s legs, works his aching twitching cock through his jeans, and Sascha drops his head back and moans. He reaches down between them and undoes his belt, fingers tripping and slipping for haste, and Mischa helps him, fingers sure and fast. Unzips him, unbuttons him, Sascha grabbing for Mischa’s front, trying to get him out of his clothes so they can get as close as they’ve wanted to be for years. Mischa lets him, eyes coal as he watches Sascha’s progress, sharp sigh of relief slashing from his throat when he’s free. Shoes off, pants off, only underwear, and when they come together it’s like nothing is between them. They are both so hard they’re escaping the front flaps of their boxers and when Sascha feels the warm velvet of Mischa’s cock against his own he chokes on his own breath. They’ve seen each other naked before, of course, but what a difference between a visual and a sensation; Mischa feels like something he can only describe as _right_.

 

Mischa’s hands grip his elbows and when Sascha rolls his hips against Mischa’s the elder groans, ruined.

 

“Bedroom,” he gasps, and Sascha nods, takes Mischa’s hand and lets him lead again. Sascha has always looked to Mischa to lead; it’s why he’s been so moody and lost and aggressive since Mischa has been gone, but now he feels like everything is correct again. The darkness of the bedroom matches the black in their eyes and the bed is pristine and Sascha can’t wait to fuck it up.

 

They’re not tender right now, nothing about this is sweet or soft, it’s anger and jealousy and lust and the possessiveness that’s plagued them both for ages. When they reach the bed Mischa shoves Sascha bodily atop it, doesn’t wait for him to situate before leaping upon him, invading the crevice between his thighs with first his knee, then his hand once more. Without the thickness of denim between them Mischa is practically touching skin and Sascha can’t breathe.

 

“ _Mischa_.”

 

“Yes.” Mischa’s voice is a breath and his hand merciless, massaging and stroking and exploring, a tease and a fulfillment at once. When he stops to slide his fingertips up Sascha’s chest Sash cries out in frustration, deprived; Mischa’s answering grin is demonic.

 

“Like I’d let you cum so easily.”

 

“Fuck. I know.” And Sascha does; he is fully aware. He yanks at Mischa’s waistband, rash. “Take these off.”

 

“Yours come off too,” says Mischa, a demand, so Sascha obliges, scrambling out of his boxers as he watches Mischa unclothe. In the dim lamplight his body is marvelous and impetuously Sascha leans up, licks Mischa’s skin, sucks at his nipple and presses fingers into the valleys of his abdomen. Gratified when Mischa _mmmm_ s in his throat, emboldened, so Sascha runs that brave hand down his brother’s pelvis and curls a hand around his cock. Mischa freezes.

 

Sascha says with his mouth still circling the rosy little nub of Mischa’s nipple, “Yes?” and Mischa chokes out, “ _yes_ ,” so Sascha strokes him, thumb crossing the slick seeping crown of his brother’s length, working him slow, slow, hot until Mischa can’t help but groan out loud. It’s never felt this good, not with anyone, and they’ve only gotten as far as frottage and a semi-fucking- _handjob_. He thrusts into Sascha’s hand, once, twice, and then he stills his hips and pulls Sascha up and licks into his open bitten mouth.

 

“Slow, Sash,” he says, voice like a rusted nail, “I don’t get to cum so quickly, either, and you’re gonna make me if you don’t stop.”

 

Sascha wants that, wants Mischa’s mouth, wants whatever Mischa will do to him even though he’s still angry and wounded from years of mixed signals and a lack of honesty, of understanding. “Fucking tease.”

 

“You have no idea,” says Mischa, and Sascha has just enough time to wonder what Mischa means by _that_ before Mischa is licking down his stomach, tongue hot as molten gold, face submerged in the thick pelt of hair arrowing along Sascha’s pelvis. Sascha thinks, _he won’t_ , and then he thinks, _oh god he might_ , and then he can’t think at all because Mischa’s tongue is lining the underside of his cock, wetting it, tasting the vein. Running along the base, missing the head because he knows that’s what Sascha wants, palms slapping on Sascha’s ass cheeks and holding him there, keeping his hips steady so he won’t buck because _god damn_ does he want to and _god damn_ does Mischa know.

 

Sascha hisses, “fuck,” and Mischa says, “on your back.”

 

It’s a command and Sascha is obedient, good for him, because he knows if he behaves he’ll get what he wants. That’s how Mischa has always been with him – if he hits one hundred forehands in a row without missing, he’ll get ice cream; if they win their doubles match, he can pick where they go for dinner, so on and so forth. Really, Mischa has always been the one who can force good manners and performance from Sascha; he knows that Sascha will do anything for him, because he worships him, loves him like the sea loves the sand, and the feeling is mutual. They are two entities that cannot be separated and nothing has ever felt like it was meant to be as much as this moment right now. Mischa gets on his knees and watches Sascha stretch out at the head of the bed, huge and bronze and lean, hand going automatically to play with his swollen cock, and swears out loud.

 

Sascha says, “What?”

 

“You,” says Mischa simply, and he crawls to him, straddles him, lets their cocks line up. Holds them both in one huge palm and strokes in tandem, three times, four. Sascha is so hard and Mischa is too and they are both weeping obscenely from their slits, lubricant for Mischa’s heavy stroke. They are both moaning, losing it, but then Mischa drops his hand and slides back and situates so his face is between Sascha’s legs, devil-eyed. He kisses Sascha’s right thigh, then his left, mouths hot along the delicate skin. Sascha’s breath is harsh, unsteady.

 

Mischa sinks his teeth into Sascha’s inner thigh, gentle at first, then abrasive, palm coming up to clamp over Sascha’s hipbone, grounding him. Sascha is straining to keep in his noise but he is destroyed for proper bites and when he can feel himself bruising he fists a hand in Mischa’s russet waves, keens aloud, wrecked. Mischa loves it; he’s a slut for moans and he grinds himself gingerly into the bed, whimpers against Sascha’s skin, hot breath the perfect finish to Sascha’s pleasure-pain. The pressure is enough that Sascha can already predict the color his next-day bruises will be: violent violet-yellow against the ashen canvas of his sunless skin.

 

Again he gets out,

 

“ _Mischa_ ,”

 

and the elder can’t stop himself grinning.

 

“Sascha.” Licking gently over his own teethmarks, cleaning the wounds he’d left, tender.

 

“How,” says Sascha, voice all gasp and splutter, “do you know what I like?”

 

“Because I know you,” says Mischa, rough. “No one knows you better than I do.”

 

“Then you know what I want now,” says Sascha, and Mischa slides his hand from Sascha’s hip to bat at his cock, straight as an arrow between the supple muscle of his thighs, twitching purple, neglected.

 

“Do I.”

 

“Fuck.” Sascha drops his head back, face pained, as Mischa kisses the base, each side. Sascha’s skin is hot as fire. “Mischa.”

 

“I love the way you say my name,” purrs Mischa, supreme in his confidence. “Always have.”

 

“I’ll say it as many times as you want if you suck my cock,” says Sascha, strained pant, and Mischa _hmmm_ s, mouth pressed gently to Sascha’s balls.

 

“Will you.”

 

He takes first one ball, then the other, into his mouth, sucking so lightly Sascha shivers, rent apart from the sensation. His big hand tightens in Mischa’s hair.

 

“Yes.” He is gasping, needy. “Mischa, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll always do whatever you want. You know I’m yours.”

 

“Are you?” Mischa is demanding; he’s wanted this for so fucking long and it doesn’t feel real. Confirmation is validation and he can’t get enough because fuck if he can deny who he belongs to; it’s always been Sascha, even though the nature of that belonging has changed over the years. He slides his tongue up Sascha’s pulsing length; Sash is so hard Mischa can tell it hurts. “Are you mine?”

 

“ _Yes_.” Sascha is mad for lust; every thought is of Mischa’s lips and tongue, his mouth so close it’s absolute torture. Dimly he knows that he deserves this but then again Mischa deserves it too, deserves to wait, because Sascha knows Mischa wants to fuck him and the longer they carry on with this the longer it will be until that can happen. He just doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out until he starts pleading. “I’ve always been yours.”

 

Mischa parts his lips, slides down an inch over the crown of Sascha’s cock, and Sascha shudders to his core, free hand coming up to push at Mischa’s shoulder, try to get him down, but Mischa pops off, shakes his head.

 

“No.”

 

In madness Sascha yelps out; he has no mind left to lose, he is only lust. “Mischa, _please_.”

 

This is exactly what Mischa wants. He nudges down between Sascha’s ass cheeks, flicks his tongue out, experimental. “You can thrust when I say you can, Sascha.”

 

“Okay,” says Sascha, wrecked for that, “okay, just please, Mischa, I need your mouth.”

 

“Why didn’t you say so,” says Mischa, iniquitous, and then he spreads Sascha’s thighs with rough palms and swallows Sascha’s impressive length whole.

 

Sascha had been wrong when he’d thought that he had no mind left to lose; there were iotas of coherent thought remaining before Mischa took his cock, but now they are gone. The sound he produces can only be described as a sob; Mischa’s mouth is butter-warm and all suction and no one has ever sucked him like this before, no one has ever even come close, because of course not. Of course Sascha’s fucking _big brother_ is the only one who can make him feel like he does, like he’s clinging to a ray of moonlight with stars cupped in his fingertips. Otherworldly.

 

“ _Mischa, Mischa, Mischa_ ,” chants Sascha, incoherent, and Mischa rewards him for good behavior, draws him deeper down his throat, hollows his cheeks and swallows hard so Sascha gasps. Sascha’s cockhead is grazing the back of his throat and Mischa can taste the fluid leaking from his slit, thick and strong; it is clear that he won’t last but Mischa doesn’t want to stop. It is Sascha’s hand squeezing in his hair that draws him back to awareness and when he pulls off Sascha whines for the absence.

 

“Sascha,” Mischa says, voice rough from letting Sascha fuck his throat. The younger blinks away his insanity, focuses on Mischa’s infiltrating eyes.

 

“Yes.” But Sascha knows.

 

Mischa kisses Sascha’s soft thigh, tender and warm where he’d bitten it, already discolored. “Can I fuck you?”

 

“God.” Sascha rolls his towhead back; he’s seeing white. “Yes. Fuck yes. I told you, whatever you want.”

 

Mischa rises to his knees, hesitates, rubs between Sascha’s legs until he’s moaning again. “Have you – before?”

 

“Have I been fucked in the ass?” Sascha is too gone to be civil. “Yes. It’s been a while, but yes, you don’t have to treat me like I’ll break.”

 

Mischa growls. “Good, because I know you won’t. Hang on.”

 

He dives off the bed for his suitcase, digs in it, comes up with a bottle of lube. Sascha chuckles at him, his exuberance, and then he starts wondering.

 

“Why do you even _have_ lube right now? Were you expecting me to let you fuck on the first date? I’m not _that_ easy, Jesus.”

 

Mischa laughs out loud, a startled shout that scrapes through the air. “Can you stop? I’m trying to be mad at you.”

 

“You can’t stay mad at me and you know it,” says Sascha, cheeky, “but I’m mad at you, too. Seriously, though, why?”

 

“Enhances masturbation,” says Mischa, cheerful. “I always have some with me, just in case. Now shut up and let me be pissed at you. It’ll make our sex better.”

 

Sascha can’t stop grinning; now that they’ve spoken about it, he’s done for. “I’m pretty sure it’s going to be amazing regardless of whether we’re upset with each other or not.”

 

“I know.” Mischa bends down, kisses him, preps his fingers with lube and slicks them around so it spreads. “Fuck you, Sascha. You’re so goddamn beautiful. I can’t look at you without thinking about it. You’re so perfect it hurts.”

 

Sascha is dumbfounded. “But Mischa, that’s you.”

 

“You’re blind.” Mischa slides a finger into that firm pucker of muscle and Sascha squirms, closes his eyes, mewls. “How come you’re only a cocky bitch when you’re not with me?”

 

Sascha is quiet for that; he knows it’s true. “Because you know who I am and I can’t fool you.”

 

Mischa’s laugh is bitter; he quirks a fingertip and Sascha hisses. “Does she know who you are?”

 

“No.” Sascha is growling, eyes ablaze, internal inferno. “She knows fuckboy athlete Sascha, sugar daddy Sascha. People I don’t even know.”

 

“Does she make you moan like that?” Mischa adds another finger, swears for Sascha’s tightness, the way he sucks him in and holds. “Does she know to bite, that you like to be bruised?”

 

“No,” says Sascha, gritting his bone-white teeth, rolling his hips down so Mischa will scratch that most specific of itches. “And no. I don’t know how you fucking know.”

 

Mischa gives him a look. “You know why, Sash.”

 

“Because I belong to you,” whispers Sascha, and Mischa grabs his cock, strokes upward as he scissors his fingertips.

 

“Yes,” he says, little hiss. “You do. Do you want to put some on me?”

 

Sascha reaches out for the bottle and Mischa pours into his palm; Sascha spreads it between his hands, slicks them both over the hard thick length of Mischa’s cock, and they both groan. Sascha thinks that Mischa might split him in two but he won’t say it aloud because he’s determined to take it, no matter what; he needs this like he’s never needed anything and he knows Mischa does too. Instead he says,

 

“Perfect, Mischa,” and bites his lower lip so it brings color there.

 

Mischa sighs out, smiles; he’s still pissed but Sascha makes it hard. “You.”

 

“I want you to fuck me now,” says Sascha, firm, and now it is Mischa’s turn to shut his eyes.

 

“Okay,” he says, soft, spreads his fingers to open Sascha up a bit more, withdraws them. His stomach is going to explode. He settles between Sascha’s legs, nudges his balls with the slick crown of his cock, and then he is level with Sascha’s entrance and it feels like the most delicious of transgressions. When he slides in, just the crown, Sascha’s face goes white and Mischa has to chew the side of his tongue to force himself to stop.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yes,” says Sascha, strained, and Mischa can tell it’s the good kind of pain. “Keep going.”

 

So Mischa does, focusing on Sascha’s lines and angles and beauty to stop himself from rucking like a stallion on a mare in heat, but Sascha feels _so fucking good_ around his cock and he’s never known tightness like this before. Sascha is pulling him in, flexing muscle and closing his thighs so Mischa is encompassed, and if he’s doing this while Mischa is simply entering him for the first time Mischa can’t imagine what it will be like when Sascha relaxes.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sash,” he gets out when he’s buried all the way in, and Sascha grins.

 

“Are you still pissed?”

 

“God damn it.” Mischa can’t even see. “Yes.”

 

“Then fuck me like it,” says Sascha, and Mischa roars aloud and pulls his hips back and _thrusts._ Sascha howls for him, wild, green eyes alien and overbright glaring into the blackness of Mischa’s pupils. Mischa is gripping Sascha’s forearms and he thinks, _more bruises to explain_ but then Mischa’s torso is flat to his and he’s biting into Sascha’s neck as he bucks his hips and Sascha is cleaved in two in the best possible way. He rakes fingernails down the perfect expanse of Mischa’s back and Mischa rumbles into the mark he’s painting upon Sascha’s skin. He draws back, cock all the way in, and grabs Sascha’s thighs, pulls them over his shoulders, drives down with all the anger and helplessness he’s felt over the years. Watching Sascha, his gorgeous open mouth, eyes shut as he writhes, recognizing his beauty but denying his own obvious interest when Sascha was near him, all heat and big open eyes, the intensity of his touch. How they’d come to each other’s rooms at night just to lay in bed and talk, how Mischa had caught Sascha masturbating once, in his room on his knees in bed, moaning with his eyes closed. How their eyes had met shocked across the room before Mischa had yelped out an apology and fled. How he’d jerked off in the shower that night and tried not to think of the breathlessness of Sascha’s gasps.

 

How they hadn’t come to this conclusion ages ago was beyond him, but he chalks it up to being the Responsible Older Brother because when Sascha had told him ten minutes ago that he would do whatever Mischa wanted, Mischa had believed him. Maybe if Mischa hadn’t spent so much time cowering from his intuition, they could have done this years ago, avoided such conflict, fixed things with communication instead of always looking away from the other’s inquiring gaze. He is angry, angry that he has committed to anyone but Sascha, who has been his soul mate forever. That Sascha could allow himself to be taken in by such a sad, strange little creature as Olya.

 

“Does she make you feel like this?” Thrusting, rolling his hips so Sascha sobs out for him, wordless, owned. “Is it this good with her?”

 

“No.” Sascha’s voice is unrecognizable. “And Evgeniya? Do you do this to her? Does she feel this good, this tight?”

 

“ _No_.” Mischa loves this, knows he shouldn’t. His fingers around Sascha’s forearms are cruel. “So fucking tight, Sash, Jesus Christ.”

 

Sascha mewls, writhes, locks his ankles around Mischa’s neck. “Fuck, Mischa, yes, there, do it again,” and he’s incoherent because with every thrust Mischa is striking his sweet spot, delicious in his veins, and he’s forgotten how good it could be like this. Better than it ever has been, because this is Mischa, and Mischa is his, and everything they’ve ever done together has always been perfect. Sascha’s stomach is curling with imminent orgasm and his fingertips are losing sensation and when he looks in Mischa’s blissed-out eyes he knows they are occupying the same plane of existence.

 

“Sash,” Mischa gets out, “I’m close.”

 

“Me too,” says Sascha, and it’s a sigh, a groan; he’s done. Mischa is keeping himself in check but it’s harder to stop every second and he knows his control won’t last but because he is who he is he won’t cum without Sascha’s permission, not now, not the first time.

 

“Can I cum in you?”

 

Sascha chokes out a little laugh for that; he can’t believe Mischa needs his explicit consent, not buried to the hilt inside of him, so deep he swears he can feel him in his stomach. “Yes,” he says, and because he knows Mischa will go wild for it he says, “Fill me up, Meesh.”

 

He’s right; Mischa’s eyes go red, black, red, his stomach convulsing with furious pleasure, all hitched breath and blind stare and Sascha knows, knows, knows. Mischa withdraws to the crown, slams back in once, twice, and then he is pressing his mouth to Sascha’s knee, lips parted, teeth sharp against Sascha’s sweat-slick skin, holding him down as he spills his seed deep inside of him. The convulsions of Mischa’s cock draw the crown perfectly across Sascha’s sweet spot and then he is coming too, helplessly, thick milk-white spurts down swollen skin, head thrown back with his damp curls tossed haphazardly across his forehead. One hand digging in the screwed-up sheets, the other clamped around Mischa’s wrist, and Mischa turns his hand so their palms are pressed together and for a brief moment their fingers interlock. The eye contact they create is an earthquake.

 

When Mischa finishes he stays inside for a moment, just looks at Sascha, the mess he’s made of him. He reaches down, swipes Sascha’s curls from his glassed-over eyes, leans down to kiss him. When he does the slick head of Sascha’s cock grazes his chest and Mischa can feel that his skin is getting painted with cum but he doesn’t care, wants it, wants all of Sascha all over him because

 

( _are you mine?_ )

 

(yes. _I’ve always been yours_.)

 

they belong to each other.

 

When he pulls out – gingerly, so Sascha doesn’t hurt – they lie together with their fingers braided, long legs roped, watching each other’s faces. Sascha knows Mischa is looking for signs of regret, so he kisses him, hand framing his brother’s face, stubble and heat under his touch.

 

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted that?”

 

“Me too,” says Mischa, and his eyes wash with jewel-like relief. “I just didn’t know that I did, until – ”

 

“I know.” Sascha nuzzles his forehead to Mischa’s. “Meesh, what are we going to do?”

 

“I don’t know,” says Mischa, heavy, pressing into Sascha’s body like he’s a lifeline. “We fucked up, Sash. I fucked up when I got married.”

 

“Yeah, well. We’re even now.” Sascha’s eyes are miserable. “I don’t want this to be a one-off.”

 

“Then it won’t be,” says Mischa, simply. “But we’re going to have to be careful. More careful than we’ve ever been before, about anything.”

 

“I know.” Sascha’s fingers go to Mischa’s cheekbone, stark relief under skin. “But I want this, Mischa. More than anything I want this.”

 

Mischa closes his eyes, turns his face so he can kiss Sascha’s hand. “Me too, Sash.”

 

And so it is, and so it will be, as it always should have been. Maybe they have no idea what they’re doing but they’re already at an advantage because they have each other and they understand one another so well that sometimes they don’t even have to speak. Which is why, Sascha thinks, it’s been so hard for them to admit what’s been happening for ages now: they already knew, knew from the way they touched each other and warmed for each other like no one else; from the ferocious jealousy that arose in the wake of Evgeniya and Olya. But Mischa is here with him now and they have forged an understanding and the only thing to do is to move forward.

 

_For whom are you pining?_

 

Mischa kisses his mouth and sits up and strokes his hair back again, maps the straight line of his nose, dots his fingertip over Sascha’s freckles.

 

“Let’s go to dinner with Marcelo and Olya. I want to watch her with you knowing my orgasm is drying inside of you.”

 

Sascha’s mouth goes wide and he splutters as Mischa pulls away, jumps off the bed in one fluid motion and from the smirk on his brother’s face he knows he is entirely serious. Two can play that game.

 

“Okay,” he says, faking nonchalance like his life depends on it. “But you’re coming to the Maldives with us. And you’re bringing your wife and child.”

 

Mischa looks at him and grins and thinks that if this is how his life is going to be, stolen kisses in empty hallways and quick fucks in secretly rented hotel rooms and covert glances across the table, hands low on each other’s backs in crowded places, heat and heat and heat between them, then he’s all right with that. He’s all right with that because if that’s the only way he can call Sascha his own then he’s willing to sacrifice anything to keep it that way.


End file.
